


A New Game

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Begging, Consensual Non-Consent, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, Kissing, M/M, Power Dynamics, Pussy Spanking, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 19:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15978806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Loki thinks of a new game for he and Fandral to explore together.





	A New Game

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from mitzvahmelting for humiliation and pussy spanking!

Loki is run ragged, and he gasps as Fandral shoves him back over a tree stump, taking a moment to ensure Fandral’s cape has softened the surface enough not to do him any damage. Loki is breathing heavily, his legs trembling, and Fandral is curious as to how much of this is an act - certainly, Fandral knows Loki to have run full  _scores_  of miles before tiring enough to take a rest, and yet they have scarcely covered two in their rush through the woods.

This game was one of Loki’s suggestions, and to Fandral’s surprise, the pageantry of it more than appeals: he drags hard at the soft chiffon that clothes Loki’s skin, bearing the pale skin beneath.

“Unhand me, prince,” Loki snaps, and Fandral leans in so that his laugh whispers over the side of his neck and his jaw: Loki shudders, his eyes wide, and despite his act of not wanting, his legs part slightly, allowing Fandral to slide his knee between his thighs. 

“Oh, but my  _pretty_  little wood nymph,” Fandral murmurs, and the fabric makes a satisfying tear as he rips it aside entirely, leaving Loki clad in but a bodice and a light underskirt. Loki keeps his ordinary face, but his hair is wonderful today - he has not greased it back as so oft he does, and instead it comes away from his head in soft waves of deepest onyx. He truly  _is_  as a nymph in his beauty, his skin aglow with the exercise, and Fandral takes a knife from his belt. Loki’s breath hitches in his throat as he eyes the blade, and Fandral brings it to the hem of the bodice, ripping up in one smooth motion: Loki whines. “I wish to put my hands  _all over_  you.”

He does, as soon as the bodice is cast aside, his fingers playing up Loki’s sides and dragging over his ribs. He takes one pink nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging at it, and Loki gasps.

“Unhand me,” he says again. “Unhand me, AEsir, lest I–”

“Lest you what?” Fandral asks, pursing his lips in a show of condescending amusement. Yes - a prince he may not be, but Fandral rather likes to play the part - just as Loki is enjoying playing his. “Lest you  _curse_  me with your sparks of seidr? Lest you curse me with your words?”

Fandral brings the flat of the blade over the surface of Loki’s soft belly, and Loki grunts as the tip of the blade catches in the fabric of his underskirt, which is made of some soft, green fabric.

“Please,” Loki says, and one hand catches over Fandral’s wrist. He looks at Fandral with his wide eyes shining, his lips parted. “You would bring me to ruin, were you to– I  _can’t_ , you mustn’t, I–”

“I don’t care for being told what I must or must not do by some fae creature,” Fandral whispers, his mouth hovering over Loki’s, and he feels the stiffness of Loki’s body - Loki is a good actor, that much is true, but even wider do his legs spread, and Fandral has never felt so  _in love_  with this prince of Asgard, this wonder of the Nine Realms… “Particularly one who would scorn my affections, and yet so plainly desire them so. Tell me, pretty thing, when I cut away this skirt and cleave you open with my cock, how wet will I find you?”

Loki’s indignation shows in his face, his lips curling into a wonderfully inhuman snarl - his nose flattens into something not dissimilar to a snout, and his teeth elongate, and Fandral captures him in a kiss. Loki gasps into his mouth, his raising hands falling back at his sides, and the snout and wolfish grin each fade away, replaced merely by Loki’s soft, eager lips and his searching tongue. Fandral plunders his mouth, controlling the kiss and pressing the prince back against the tree stump and the blanket of Fandral’s cape, even as, with one smooth movement, he cuts the skirt aside.

Loki’s quim is truly a thing to behold, but Fandral will not behold it now: he kisses Loki all the deeper, roughly but with an edge of softness, and he casts the knife aside, into the midst of the clearing where Loki cannot reach it. With his fingers free to explore, he brings them down to Loki’s cunt, and finds him as slick as a bitten peach, juices dripping down his thighs and messy on Fandral’s fingers.

Loki turns his head away, shame showing on his face, and Fandral laughs against his neck, dragging his teeth over the skin.

“Aw, the faerie is in need of– Why, aren’t you so  _lucky_  I came along, hm? You need an AEsir to satisfy you, my dear.”

“Then die,” Loki says, “and see me satisfied.”  _Norns_ , Fandral thinks.  _What an excellent line_.  _How long has Loki practised that? How many times has he thought it in his head?_  

“Oh, I think I can think of a better way to satisfy you than with my death,” Fandral whispers, and he slides two fingers forward. Loki moans, his hips canting up and into Fandral’s hand, and Fandral locks his lips over a patch of marble skin, sucking a bruised mark against it. Loki fidgets and gasps, his fingers tightening in the cape beneath them, and Fandral shoves his fingers in as deeply as he can, feeling Loki smooth and open about him. “You pathetic little slattern,” Fandral murmurs. “Tell me, darling, would you really be  _worth_  much as a wife anyway? So eager… You might as well be some tavern whore, taking AEsir for money - no fae man would be satisfied with such a loose quim as this.” 

Loki chokes out a stuttered sound that isn’t exactly a moan, but his spine arches from the trunk, and Fandral grins. 

“I’m not–” Loki whispers, and Fandral sees his lower lip tremble - a beautiful touch, truly, Loki is an  _artiste_. He understands theatre as well as any actor, much as his applications are… Unorthodox. “I am  _not_ , I don’t want this, I–”

“Don’t you?” Fandral asks, innocently. He slides a third finger inside, feeling Loki clench eagerly about him. “It seems to me that you do. Are you sure you haven’t been fucked once or twice already today? What difference will I make? In fact… Hmm. You know, my sweet little pixie, I don’t know that this will even  _satisfy_  me.”

“What?” Loki asks, quavering, and Fandral drags his fingers out with a wet noise, and slides them lower. One slick finger plays over the tight, dry furl of Loki’s arse, and Loki heaves in a gasp. “ _No!”_

“No?”

“No!” Loki is breathing even heavier now, and Fandral can see the excited sparkle in his eyes - they really must do this again. Fandral regrets his scepticism: this really  _is_  rather fun. 

“Alright,” Fandral murmurs, exaggerating the thoughtfulness of his own expression. “Well then, my dear, we must think of a way to tighten this quim of yours.”

“No, no,” Loki says, and his hands slide to Fandral’s chest, his palms spread over Fandral’s pectorals through the fabric of his tunic. “Wait, wait, your– your highness.”

“Oh, I have my  _title_  now, do I?”

“Let me… My, my mouth might satisfy you,” Loki whispers. He says it with shame dripping from his voice, his hands trembling, but Fandral can see the tell-tale quirk of his lips, the twinkle in his eyes - he’s enjoying the ridiculousness of this game just as much as Fandral is, probably more. “I could take you on my tongue, I’ve never… But I could try.”

“Hmm,” Fandral muses, making a show of considering the offer. “T’would still be a pleasure, I’m sure, to deprive you of one of your virtues…”

“Yes,” Loki says, almost too eagerly. “Yes, I–”

“But wait!” Fandral says, delighted. “I have an idea!”

“What?” Fandral brings his palm down against Loki’s cunt in one hard smack, and Loki’s yowl echoes through the woods, singing through the trees with the speed of an arrow, and none of its silence. Fandral’s palm is sloppy with wetness, but he can feel Loki’s quim twitch, feel Loki tremble, his eyes tearing up.

“No,” Loki says, shaking his head. “No, no, your highness,  _don’t_ –” Fandral does it again. Loki  _moans_ , and Fandral laughs.

“Why, do you like this, pixie? Do you  _enjoy_  this?”

“No,” Loki protests miserably, “No, no, I  _don’t_ …” Fandral smacks him again, and then again, and he feels the quiver of his perfect little cunt, sloppy and wet… Norns, he’s perfect. What other being might rival him in perfection?

“Oh, you  _do_ ,” Fandral whispers. “But I’m sure this will tighten you up a little, regardless. And I– You know, my dear, if you do  _very_  nicely, perhaps I’ll call the rest of my hunting party, hm? We might all have a piece of you.” Loki chokes on air, and Fandral smacks him again, the heel of his palm dragging over the little bud of Loki’s cock, pressing against it. 

Oh, yes. This is soon to be a favourite game of his  _indeed_. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up on Tumblr](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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